Page 35 of All for her Forgiveness

After being dismissed by the angry voice of one of my bosses, I leave the room as if the devil were chasing me.

Hades

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Past

NEW ORLEANS

I could have left about halfan hour ago because it only took ten minutes of conversation to know that I didn't want to acquire their businesses under my family name.

New Orleans is a place infested with mafias, but it has a king, and his name is Beau Carmouche-LeBlanc. Although we're not close, he's friends with my cousin Christos, and I know that nothing happens in Louisiana without his approval.

Beau dwells in a gray area between legality and crime. Nobody really knows what or who he is, but there's no doubt in my mind that he lives by his own rules. And the man in front of me is foolish enough to think he can circumvent them without facing the consequences.

From what I understand, he doesn't want to sell the casino but rather get rid of it because it encroached on Sicilian mafia territory when he built it. He received an ultimatum, but he's an idiot and believes he can get out without any loss, shifting the responsibility of dealing with the Italians and probably Beau onto the new owner.

Of course, he didn't use the word mafia when he said he's in conflict with other businessmen, but he mentioned "Sicilians," and in New Orleans, those words are synonymous.

I prepare to leave, pissed off for wasting my time here. "I don't—" I'm about to say that the deal doesn't interest me when the door suddenly opens and a woman enters with a tray.

At first glance, nothing about her catches my attention. As soon as I stepped into the establishment, there were dozens of girls dressed like her: redheads, black, blondes, brunettes, of all heights and body shapes, encapsulated in tiny black strapless dresses, high heels, sexy stockings, and ridiculous bunny-ear headbands. Beautiful women, no doubt, but in such quantity and so alike that the sight of them becomes banal. To my eyes, they were identical, like they’d been mass-produced.

Therefore, when I notice the small figure entering out of the corner of my eye, I don't look at her, although I stop talking because I don't negotiate in front of strangers.

She heads toward the table where the glasses are, probably to prepare drinks for us.

I hear one of the men present laugh, and when I glance at him, there's mischief in his expression, and I quickly understand why.

Unknowingly, I’ve been staring at the woman with her back to us. I didn't realize I had turned my head to watch her. Perhaps what caught my attention was the whiteness of her skin, as clear as that of a porcelain doll, which left me mesmerized.

There's a lot to admire about her, I must confess. Although dressed like the others, her small and delicate body is curvaceous, narrowing at the waist but with pronounced hips and a very round behind. Her legs are also long for someone so petite—I'd guess around five feet four—and complete a delightfully harmonious ensemble.

Incredibly, it's not her body that holds my attention the most, although even from the back, she looks beautiful. It's the way her mass of brown hair, somewhat wavy, falls almost to her waist. I haven't seen a woman with hair that long in a long time. And it's not just that; the strands seem to caress her skin, sliding over it like a silk curtain.

She asks if anyone wants ice in their whiskey, and I reply that I don't, while everyone else accepts.

As if in a silent pact, we wait for the girl to do her job preparing the drinks. She delivers them without making eye contact, but when it's my turn and she’s standing a few inches away, she looks up and stares at me.

Her eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue I've ever seen in my life, seeming to have hints of purple.

Her face is oval, with soft features that harmonize perfectly with the well-defined, pink lips that are currently slightly parted. Her skin is flawless and has a natural, healthy glow, and the blush spreading across her cheeks as she looks at me highlights her whiteness even more.

The woman can't be described as anything other than a masterpiece of beauty. She would stand out in a crowd, even if the others were dressed in expensive designer clothes and she was in a garbage bag.

The bottle and glass she was bringing to me are still in her hands, and they wobble as she stares, not disguising her interest in me.

Normally, I would view this with indulgence. I'm used to attracting women's attention, whether it's because of my looks or my last name. Female glances don't inflate my ego. If the woman in question interests me, I take her for myself for as long as it lasts. If not, I ignore her.

It irritates me that I can't stop staring at her, and I think she notices my bad mood, but she still doesn't stop looking at me. Finally, I hear someone cough, perhaps to get our attention.

"Do you want anything else?" she asks, her tone neutral and very low.

"Yes, there's a lot more I want from you," one of the casino partners says, "but nothing that's allowed or on the menu."

She doesn't respond and heads to the bar to return the bottle. She doesn't seem shaken, while I feel like flying at the asshole and squeezing his neck.

My reaction surprises me because nothing related to her is my concern. As far as I know, she might even be the man's lover and this is some kind of game between the two.

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